Domestic Tranquility
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A good tradition for a guy who's constitutionally opposed to change.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Many thanks to Owl and Cheri for perusing this piece and rounding up the usual subjects, error-wise.

**Author's Note: **A little something for this year's Christmas Challenge.

**Domestic Tranquility**

by L.M. Lewis

Sarah had dispatched Mark to deal with the oak tree whose branches were gradually encroaching on part of the rose garden. He'd gone willingly enough. This was Sarah's last week as housekeeper at Gull's Way. Obviously she'd taken a long last wander around the place and in her perambulations must have discovered some things that she couldn't bear to leave unattended to.

He had his ladder, and a pruning saw, and even—at Sarah's insistence—a rope between himself and a sturdy branch in case he should lose his footing. He didn't, though, and the offending limb was attacked efficiently. Hardcastle wandered by while he was at it, squinting up at him and shaking his head.

Mark grabbed the almost detached branch with one hand as made one last swipe with the saw. "Catch," he said, then dropped it down to the man below.

It was caught, sparing the roses an entanglement. The judge stared at his prize for a moment and scowled slightly.

"What?" Mark said as he loosened his rope and climbed down. "Sarah told me to do it." He raised the pruning saw in a mock salute and then gestured to the branch. "She even showed me which one was the troublemaker."

"She got that right. Look."

Mark was looking, but apparently saw only a branch. Hardcastle pointed with displeasure to a part that had a slightly different shape than the rest.

"Parasites," the judge said grimly.

Mark looked again, though from a cautious distance, as though expecting to see something with too many legs clinging to one of the leaves—but, no, just leaves.

"Mistletoe," Hardcastle muttered disgustedly. He peered up into the tree then handed the branch back to McCormick and wandered around the trunk, still staring up. "Looks like the only one for now. Maybe we nipped it in the bud."

Mark glanced down at the now-apparent mare's nest of foliage in among the more standard leaves. "That's it?"

The judge looked over his shoulder at him. "You've never seen it before?"

The younger man shook his head, and then grinned. "Good timing, though, huh?"

Hardcastle was still scowling.

"I mean, it's December and you're having a party," Mark coaxed.

"It's just a little get-together, not a party," the judge insisted for what had to be the twentieth time since the subject of the Christmas gathering had first come up. He was eyeing the mistletoe warily, as though its presence might tip the tide toward too much frivolity.

"Okay," Mark sighed, "it just seems like a golden opportunity. It's _Christmas_. People expect overhead hazards and all that."

"Not at _my _parties," Hardcastle said sternly.

"Then it _is_ a party, huh?" Mark brightened considerably. "Good, I was starting to worry." He broke the branch into manageable pieces, with the parasite still attached to one of them, and gathered up the armful, carrying it off toward the back part of the property where he heaped the woodier of the yard-waste.

Hardcastle watched him depart. He supposed he'd been a little Scrooge-like, though it would take much more than that to suppress McCormick. After four months of having him underfoot, the judge was starting to realize that the guy was just naturally ebullient. He should have gotten a notion of it that first night. Though the death of a close friend and the near-certainty of another felony conviction had damped the man's spirits, he'd still been pretty quick with the smart remarks. It had been a little like bringing home a puppy that had big paws—just a hint of what was to come.

He shook his head and turned toward the house. He recognized part of his gloominess as the result of circumstances. He was in no mood for a party this week, with Sarah's departure so imminent. They'd both agreed it was for the best—her sister needed her—but he was not a man who relished change, and there was no denying he'd grown to depend on her in many ways. He had a suspicion that Sarah proceeding with plans for the get-together was an ill-starred attempt on her part to lend an air of normality to the place.

And of course he had to go along with it. Anything else would be sulking. So he was approaching Saturday's gathering, and Sarah's departure on Sunday, with a mix of dread and resolve.

He mounted the stairs to the back door, stifling a sigh as he entered. His housekeeper of thirty-two years was seated at the table, sorting through a stack of small papers.

"Mistletoe," he announced grimly.

She looked up from her work and nodded once sharply. "I thought I'd seen some, but either way, that branch needed to come down. I'll let Mr. Sylvester know. He can come have a look around and see if there's any more."

"Nah, you have enough to do." Hardcastle brushed away her offer. "I'll call him after the holidays. It can wait. I didn't see any others. McCormick wanted to bring it in for decoration."

Sarah cocked her head.

"I had him throw the branch out on the pile."

"Were there berries on it?" Sarah inquired.

The judge shook his head.

"Then it should be all right. Nothing for the birds to spread." She went back to her sorting. "Spice cookies, I'm thinking. And Judge Groves likes those little sweetmeat tarts."

Hardcastle drove his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the counter. "You didn't have to do all this," he said quietly.

Sarah looked up at him again but didn't answer right away. When she did reply, it was in a quiet tone as well.

"It will be my last one," she said thoughtfully. "I can't imagine that my sister and I will do much entertaining . . . and it is nice to have something to keep a person occupied."

The judge wasn't sure exactly who needed to have their hands kept full, but it was evident that Sarah was busy at present. He nodded and sauntered out.

00000

The rest of the week had passed quickly enough in a flurry of chores, many of them party-related, most assigned to McCormick, and those generally carried out with alacrity. Hardcastle had no idea why the younger man was so cooperative. Mark would have told anyone who'd listen that these were the judge's friends, not his, coming to the shindig tonight.

Of course he'd _met_ most of them. He'd done a couple little jobs for Frank Harper, eaten Claudia's spaghetti, and played poker with several others of the usual suspects, but still, his enthusiasm seemed to be more for the idea of the holidays and parties in general.

The judge wasn't sure he could put up with much more of it. He'd felt himself growing increasingly grumpy as the day of Sarah's departure approached, in stark contrast to the younger man's chipper mood.

'_Course he barely knows her. Just a few months._ He frowned. He could hear them on the other side of the doorway, in the kitchen, her giving crisp, clipped orders and his occasional 'yes ma'am'. He probably thought things would be easier once she was gone—standards would slip a little.

Hardcastle grunted once. The door swung open as the reformed slacker in question butted through backwards bearing a tray stacked high with glasses, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his path was clear. He deposited those on the sideboard and turned to Hardcastle.

"You done with that?" He pointed at the lunch dishes as he asked. "Sarah wants to get things set up in here."

Buffets wait for no man, the judge supposed, and he hadn't really been eating any more. He nodded glumly and his plate was swept up almost before he could deposit the fork on it. He retreated into the den, where the Bing Crosby albums had been culled out and propped against the record player and the fireplace was set with logs and kindling, waiting for the match.

He sat there for only a few minutes, feeling a little crowded in with his desk moved back a couple of feet to make room for the tree. The decorating had gotten done the night before, with Sarah in charge of logistics and Mark doing the heavy lifting. Did the man show half as much cooperation when there were files to be sorted?

Hardcastle eyed the tree dyspeptically. It smelled nice, he supposed, but he thought it was a lot of darn fool work for something that would be taken down and thrown away in only a few weeks. He sighed and finally got to his feet, pocketing the list of last-minute purchases that Sarah had handed him at lunch. He raised his voice to announce his departure, not sure if anyone had heard him.

He stayed out a bit longer than he'd planned. It had been a long list, and he'd thought of a few more things that weren't on it, as well as some additional errands that needed running. Caught up in the pre-holiday shopping traffic, it was beginning to look as though he might be late for his own party.

He made it home as dusk was falling and only ahead of the invitation time by a matter of ten minutes. Mark intercepted him at the front door, already done up in a decent shirt and chinos. He relieved him of his packages and gave him a none-too-gentle shove in the direction of the stairs.

"Sarah says she put your Christmas sweater on your bed," Mark intoned, the solemnity in stark contrast to his mischievous expression. "You _have_ a 'Christmas sweater'?"

"It was a gift," he grumbled as he mounted the stairs.

"Felt reindeer? A candy cane maybe?"

"It's just red, that's all."

"Well, I'm supposed to remind you it's there, so consider yourself reminded."

At Hardcastle's sluggardly stairway progress Mark cleared his throat and added, "It's only one more day; a red sweater's not all that much to ask."

_That_ stung—probably because it had hit dead-center. The judge hmmphed and picked his feet up only slightly. The idea of being lectured to on the subject of good manners by a two-time graduate of the California penal system was grating, even more so because the lecture had been required.

He took a little longer than was absolutely necessary up in his room and as he finally donned the sweater he heard the front doorbell. A quick glance out the window revealed Frank's car. Claudia was never fashionably late, being of the firm belief that the kitchen, beforehand, was the most interesting place to be at any party.

Hardcastle arranged his sweater and his smile, and headed down the stairs. McCormick was already taking coats and carrying them off. Bing was crooning 'White Christmas' and the fire was crackling quietly. Milt got a holiday handshake from his old friend and a hug from Claudia. He ushered them toward the den.

Poised for a moment at the top of the two steps leading down, he realized there was something overhead, just out of his normal line of vision. He glanced up toward the dangling object and frowned.

Frank felt no such compunctions, apparently, and leaned over to buss his wife as they passed through the doorway behind him. No shy, retiring rose was she; it was returned in kind.

Hardcastle said nothing, smiling a little tightly up at what was obviously _his_ mistletoe hanging in his doorway. His slightly tense "Wonder how that got there?" received a laugh from his two guests.

Claudia departed for the kitchen to see if Sarah could be persuaded that she needed assistance. Frank accepted a drink. The doorbell rang again and Mark, apparently returning from the coat-stowing mission, took up informal butlering. Guests arrived in due course and the place filled up.

The doorway proved popular. Mattie Groves even lent an air of misrule to the proceedings when she tagged an unsuspecting but appreciative Mark as he strolled through with drink refills. There was laughter and cheerful teasing and certainly no opportunity to take the darn thing down.

The judge took a certain amount of good-natured kidding which he accepted. McCormick passed in and out of the room with an air of insouciance. Hardcastle grimaced at him once, but had gotten only a puzzled look in return.

Eventually the buffet was attacked. The company nearly took the day, but in the end they were defeated by Sarah's superior culinary forces and they retreated, dazed and stuffed, to the fireside. The music was turned low. The mistletoe was neglected as people snuggled into chairs and tilted their heads in quiet conversation.

Hardcastle looked around and excused himself from a corner cluster. He slipped past the mistletoe and into the hallway without mishap, then wandered through the dining room, plucking a bit of turkey absentmindedly as he passed the table. The door to the kitchen was propped open and he could hear Sarah's voice, low but penetrating, coming from within.

He moved in closer, though still on his side of the doorway. McCormick's murmur, not his usual tone, was audible now. It was a question, though the judge couldn't make out the words. Sarah answered at length. It might have been instructions.

Hardcastle suddenly felt intrusive. He cleared his throat and shuffled noisily enough to get himself noticed before he stepped into the kitchen. Mark looked up. The two of them had been sitting at the table. The dishes were nearly done and the place looked more sorted out than would be expected for this stage in the proceedings.

"The food was great," Hardcastle said unnecessarily.

Sarah sat, hands in her lap, and smiled. "I thought it would be a nice thing to do, this last night."

She'd said it calmly, as if it were nothing at all. Hardcastle tried not to frown. Mark started to rise, as though he wanted to be somewhere else. The judge frowned him right back into his seat.

"It _was_ nice, though I still think you shouldn't've worn yourself out like this, right before you leave."

"Pshaw," she said—the very word, with a gentle hint of self-mocking. "And at any rate, Mark did most of the lifting and toting. Besides, starting tomorrow I'll have all the time I want to rest."

"If you get bored, you can come back to visit," Mark said hopefully, then answered Hardcastle's warning glance with a hard look of his own.

The judge finally sighed. "Always welcome back—you know that—but I don't want you to feel bad about going."

"Of course not," Sarah said sensibly. "We've been all through that."

"And_ I_ feel bad that this is your last night and we're out there having a party."

"And I'm back here in charge of things." Sarah gazed around her at her tile and copper, then took in a deep breath and let it out again. "I will miss that, too."

"You can always call me up and tell me what to do," Mark offered gallantly.

That produced a light laugh from a woman who was not prone to laughter. She shook her head and swiped at her eye. Only laughter, she would have admonished, if anyone had questioned the need for a hankie.

00000

The evening wound down, and eventually the guests departed. A few more couples paused in the doorway but there wasn't as much good-natured jibing as the tradition was taken advantage of.

It was after midnight when the door closed behind the last visitor and Hardcastle turned back toward the den—the tree twinkling in the dimly lit room and the fire burned down to embers. Mark was picking up glasses. He had a tray nearly full. He glanced up casually at the judge's return.

"Nice party," he commented.

"Get-together," Hardcastle corrected automatically.

"It was nice," the younger man insisted, as though that were the salient point.

The judge supposed he was right. He stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, staring at the tree. It was a moment more before he became aware that McCormick was still looking at him with a grin on his face. Hardcastle's eyebrows rose, then dropped again as he realized where he'd paused--right in the doorway.

"You're safe, I think," Mark chortled. "There were a couple of them eyeing you all night, but you never gave 'em a chance." The younger man shook his head. "You sly dog."

"_Hah_," Hardcastle grumped, "I didn't want the damn thing up there in the first place. I _told_ you that."

McCormick shot a look up toward the lintel and its dangling parasitical enhancement, then back down at the judge with a genuinely puzzled expression. "Well, then why'd you put it there?" he asked, all innocence.

"_I—_?" Hardcastle paused and frowned. This was taking a joke too far. He was on the verge of opening his mouth to give the kid what-for when he heard another voice.

"I brought it in."

Sarah had come down the hallway, stepping silently in her house slippers and hardly looking like the mistress of the revels.

"I thought it would be a nice touch. _Traditional_," she added, in a tone that suggested tradition was not to be trifled with.

"It was nice," Mark assured her. "A conversation piece."

Hardcastle forced a smile, wondering how much of his recent complaint had been audible. He had no time to explain or justify, though, before she'd started up again.

"It's very _old_ tradition, you know—much more important than that silly kissing business." She dispatched a glance of bare tolerance toward McCormick as if she knew what he would say next.

He didn't disappoint, shooting back a grin and the comment—"What could be more important than _that_?"

Sarah sighed with unwonted patience. "My mother had it in the house every year at this time and kept it all the way through to the New Year. She said it was a symbol of domestic peace and tranquility. Where it grew in the wood was a sacred place and if two enemies met there, they had to put down their weapons and trust each other."

Mark's grin had gone a bit frozen. Hardcastle frowned pensively. He finally cleared his throat and said, "Not sure it's gonna do too well in here."

Sarah stepped over to the doorway, peering up at it. "Oh," she said quietly, "I think it'll do just fine."

Mark might've moved first but Hardcastle didn't have as far to go, and Sarah had two cheeks, neither capable of blushing—or maybe she'd been expecting it. That was just possible. But, in either regard, she accepted them, one on each side, with the affectionate duty due to the absolute mistress of domestic tranquility.


End file.
